Bishop: Time Warrior
by KnoKnameKnown
Summary: Bishop has a mission that will change the course of history and future alike. But what does he want with the X-Men? First story so be nice please!
1. Chapter 1

**BISHOP: TIME WARRIOR**

**A/N: Alrighty then folks prepare to have your minds blown! Or at least be vaguely impressed. Or severely let down. The choice is yours, free world and all that jazz. This is my take on the 'Days Of Future Past, one of the great X Men stories, mixing bits of the 90s X-Men with the Evo characters we all know and love, oh and the ones we don't (Looking at you Summers!)**

**Disclaimer: You know the drill people, you recognise it, it's not mine.... yet.**

**Chapter I: Chaos Is Come Again**

The old tramp liked this alley, it was an old haunt of his. Of course, by definition no alley was exactly comfortable, but at least in this one was safe and familiar; you could be sure that were you to spend a night in this alley, the odds of being attacked were if not short, at least favourable compared with many others. He shambled over to an overflowing bin to rummage for any suitable scraps discarded by more affluent people. Pillaging bins was seen as disgusting, and the tramp himself would be inclined to agree with that judgement, but it was not as if he had a tremendous amount of choice. He was examining a ragged coat as a potential replacement for his own when a sudden groan from the shadows made him jump in shock. It sounded like a human voice, and a few seconds later to let his eyes adjust to the gloom the tramp could discern the source: a humanoid shape slumped in the corner like a string-less puppet. The figure was twitching as if awakening from unconsciousness. The tramp goggled in shock as the figure stood up... and up... and up... even slouching in pain the figure was well above six foot tall, and muscled like a bodybuilder.

"Gah... won't be trying _that_ again in a hurry," the figure said, apparently to itself. Even weakened by its semiconscious state the voice was even deeper than the barrel chest and imposing height would have suggested. The figure stepped out into the light spilling from the alley-mouth. Fully revealed, it turned out to be an ebony-skinned man with shaven head and a neat goatee beard, but the most curious feature was what seemed to be a scar or brand of some kind in the shape of an M above his left eye. He finally noticed his awestruck audience.

"What date is this?" he demanded suddenly.

"Erk..." was the tramp's first attempt at a reply, which seemed to infuriate the newcomer, who moved with a speed belying his befuddlement to haul the tramp up to eyelevel with seemingly no effort.

"What. Is. The. Date?" he demanded again.

"August 11th," the tramp managed to splutter eventually. Not happy with the answer, his captor shook him like he was a mere doll.

"Year?"

"Wha-?" The tramp realised procrastination was not the way to go about winning his captor's friendship and added quickly, "two thousand and ten."

"Two days." The tramp was not sure if that was addressed to him or not and played it safe by keeping his silence. He was cast aside as unceremoniously as he had been picked up, and decided that staying down was probably his safest option. He watched the imposing figure stamp away, musing aloud. "But 'til what? Damn machine's scrambled my memory..."

The tramp could only shake his head in amazement. No-one would possibly believe this story... not that he had anyone to tell it to, of course.

The man who caused such bemusement was not entirely free of confusion himself. There were gaping holes in his memory, he could remember he had been sent here by someone called Forge, and he could remember he had been sent with a specific mission, but trying to piece together what that mission actually entailed was like trying to construct a puzzle without an image to compare it with- he had nothing to relate to that might trigger a recall. He decided he should start with what he did remember: the name Bishop, which he thought was his own. Underneath his long coat was a huge pistol that felt as much an extension of his body as his arms or legs did, and he knew instinctively he was a soldier of some kind.

He strode through the bustling streets, even in the busy crowds people found a way to get out of the path of such a purposeful, imposing figure. His outlandish outfit underneath the coat, a dark blue bodysuit of some kind with yellow strips down the side and across the chest, partly disguised by the red neckerchief tied around his throat, drew stares but no one dared comment. This industrious, populous environment was in direct contrast to the blasted wasteland he recalled as his homeland. His eyes fell upon a newspaper vendor and he hastily snatched up a copy of the first paper that came to hand.

"Hey, you can't do tha-" a combination of a threatening glare and the sight of the gun unveiled by a twitch of the coat cut the vendor's protest short. Bishop turned his attention back to the newspaper, in particular the headline story: 'Xavier and Kelly to attend Mutant Conference.' Those two names, the first in particular, stirred vague memories in Bishop's mind, he definitely knew of Xavier and it was obvious the conference was the pressing event Bishop somehow had to attend. Furthermore, the mention of mutants was significant, as Bishop realised he himself was a mutant, despite not being totally sure what that entailed. He roughly shoved the newspaper into the chest of the vendor and stalked away, his mind more confused than ever.

He shoved his shovel-sized hands into his pockets to keep them off his firearm, which from the vendor's reaction he knew to be at least disapproved of and probably illegal in this time. One hand came in contact with a small cube, which he pulled out and studied curiously. He quickly headed into the nearest alley, as he couldn't concentrate fully whilst being barged and hustled by the swirling crowds. As his hands ran over the device he must have inadvertently pressed a button or flipped a switch as it suddenly projected a hologram of a scowling, unshaven face framed by sideburns, labelled 'Wolverine: real name unknown." The image suddenly switched to a much younger, handsomer face with the eyes covered by some kind of visor, this one labelled as 'Cyclops: Scott Summers.' The device ran through a whole list of faces and identities, but Bishop was paying no attention. Like he'd flipped a switch on the cube, it had flipped one in his mind, and his brain was providing knowledge and memories as though a veil in his mind had been torn away. These were the legendary X-Men, the predecessors of Bishop and his allies in the future; the mysterious Xavier was their mentor and leader. Now memories had started to return he could not dam the tide, more and more swirled into his mind. Suddenly he realised the significance of the conference.

It was the day Charles Xavier died, shot by a fellow mutant, setting a whole tide of events in motion.

Bishop had to somehow affect the future- and sudden grim realisation fell across his mind. He was the assassin.

He had to kill Charles Xavier.

**Oooh, cliffhanger. Way to make an entrance or what? This is the bit where I'd tell reviews don't matter to me, but mother dearest bought up her boy not to lie. So click that button and feed my soul, or you go to bed with no more chapters you naughty boys and girls!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, no reviews but a new chapter anyway, mostly because I'm not sure if this thing works and I'm trying to test it... ******

**Disclaimer: yada yada, don't own, yada yada**

**Chapter II: By the pricking of my thumbs...**

At the same moment Bishop was contemplating the murder of Charles Xavier, his intended target was in discussion with his pupils and followers discussing the upcoming conference.

"But professor, why can't we come with you?" protested the mutant named Kurt Wagner. By his side his friend Kitty Pryde was nodding agreement. The professor sighed at the indignation on their young faces but his decision was made.

"Scott and Jean are old enough, you are not. This conference is at best going to gain mutant kind acceptance, not popularity. I don't want the two of you exposed to the animosity we will encounter."

"We're, like, totally old enough!" Kitty pouted. This time it was the feral mutant known as Logan who shot her protestation down.

"Pipe down half-pint. The professor doesn't think so, neither do I, you're staying and that's final."

The two young mutants both glowered at the statement but seemed to accept it, muttering under their breath before vanishing in a foul-smelling puff of smoke. Xavier could not hear what they were saying but Logan's enhanced senses could, and whatever it was brought a smirk to his face. Xavier glanced at him.

"I don't need my telepathy to know they're up to something," he commented. The last member of the group, a girl older than the departed pair with a white streak in her hair, finally spoke up.

"I could always knock them out for y'all. I don't like the idea of listening to them moaning all the time."

"Thank-you Rogue, but maybe we should try and avoid such... drastic measures." The Professor treated them to a rare smile. "Unless totally necessary that is."

"Yeah, well, why exactly did you want to see me Professor? You didn't call us down just to tell me I'm going to be stuck here."

"Because with Jean and Scott accompanying me, you will be the senior student here, with the responsibilities that involves."

The Goth girl groaned. "I think I'd rather take my chances with the mutant-haters. How am I going to cope with Bobby and Kurt, let alone the others?"

"Don't worry," Logan assured her. "Before we go I'll be having a word with the Popsicle."

That thought did cheer Rogue up considerably. A warning from Logan was as good as a fully armed SWAT team in keeping order; she was sure that that if anything would keep Bobby Drake, prankster extraordinaire, on his best behaviour. She found herself wondering if there wasn't some way she could eavesdrop on the conversation to see the look on Bobby's face. She too exited the room leaving Logan and the Professor alone.

"Are you sure this is a good idea Chuck? I don't like the idea of leaving them alone," said Logan in a troubled tone of voice. His old friend looked at him quizzically; Logan's mind was always hard to decipher even for a telepath as powerful as Xavier and it was difficult to tell what was bothering him.

"I've just got a real bad feeling about this and I don't like it."

Logan was not sure where the doom-laden pronouncement came from, but the sixth sense born of his mutant abilities and decades of experience was practically screaming a warning at him. He had long since learned better than to question that instinct, it had saved his hide more than once in the past. "Something like this, a public convention with mutants and humans both present would be one hell of a stage for someone like Magneto to make a statement of some kind."

"It would," Xavier conceded. "But I truly believe Eric can see as well as any of us this is a sign of progress not repression, attacking the conference would only be a step backwards for mutant rights."

Logan grunted. His metal-coated skeleton had given him an extremely personal stake in the X-Men's struggles with Magneto, but he knew his old friend knew the self-styled Master of Magnetism better than anyone. If Xavier trusted Magneto on this, Logan wouldn't gainsay him. That didn't make the uneasiness go away though.

"If you say so, but what about anti-mutant thugs? They ain't so noble as that."

"If we let the mere possibility of an attack dissuade us, they've already won," said Xavier with uncharacteristic vehemence in his normally placid voice. "I WILL attend, Logan. That's final."

"What about the kids? You really think Stripes can handle the place on her own?"

"Hank will be here too," Xavier countered. "Would it really hurt you to be optimistic occasionally?"

Logan looked at his friend in surprise. Xavier was really that snappy with anyone, let alone old and valued friends like Logan. It was only now that Logan really noticed the wrinkles and bruised-looking eyes that showed how seriously the conference had been weighing down on Xavier.

"Ah, I guess you're right. This whole thing's so big now... guess it's just getting to me."

Xavier smiled ruefully. "You and me both, old friend." They heard the sound of yelling and Kurt's teleportation from the dining area, and shared worried looks. "It must be Kitty's turn to prepare food again."

Logan, the fearless and nearly invulnerable Wolverine, shuddered. "Now THAT's a scary thought."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III: What fools these mortals be**

Bishop had decided to try and eliminate Xavier before the conference if possible- it had the same effect but with a greater chance of his own escape; Bishop had no illusions about his reputation and eventual fate should the killing be pinned on him. He now had a mission, but still lacked a location. The location of the Xavier Institute was practically a shrine in the future; however in the future one blasted waste-ground of rubble and cratered, cracked streets looked very much like another and bore very little resemblance to landscape of the past, and he was finding hard to get his bearings. Finding himself in what even he recognised as a particularly seedy and unsavoury part of the city, he decided he should seek information, with which aim he headed to the nearest bar. He strode inside and found himself in the odd position of feeling slightly at home; there was an atmosphere of prospective violence in the air that reminded him of his home. He made his way to the bar and grabbed the attention of the barman, not hard to do for someone of his proportions.

"Excuse me, I hope you can help- I'm looking for the Xavier institute," were the words he was sure he uttered, but from the reaction of the other loiterers in the bar he may very well have announced an intention to rape their wives and eat their children. Five particularly brutish looking men stood up and squared up to him.

"That freak show? You ain't some mutie lover are ya?" one demanded. Another, even bigger and in his own strange way more astute, made a further leap of logic on very flimsy evidence.

"You ARE a mutant, ain'tcha? That's why you've got that M scar on your face."

"Please, no fighting!" pleaded the barman piteously, but he was wasting his breath. One of the thugs whirled on him menacingly.

"Shut up, mutie-lover. You're hardly better than they are, letting freaks like that into this place." It was extremely unfair even in the face of the most rudimentary logic but Bishop supposed rational thought processes were not a defining attribute of bigotry. The thug's fellows were still facing off against Bishop despite even the tallest of them only reaching his chin.

"Listen to the man, there's no need for violence here," Bishop assured them, holding up his hands in a placatory manner. The tall thug sneered.

"Oh, I think there is..."

Bishop did not bother arguing the case further, instead one raised hand balled into a meaty fist and was launched into a business-like but brutal uppercut that slammed into the man's jaw like a jackhammer. The man reeled backwards, blood bubbling from his mouth.

"Your friend's got a broken jaw and with that amount of blood he might have bitten his tongue as well. You should probably help him get that looked at," suggested Bishop, but the advice was ignored as the thugs instead went on the attack. One swung an elaborate haymaker of a punch at Bishop. The arm was caught, twisted, and with a judicious blow from Bishop's free hand, fractured neatly and painfully. Instead of realising how overmatched they were, the thugs instead circled Bishop, confident their superior numbers would ensure their target's defeat. Bishop would probably have laughed in less serious circumstances.

"You're gonna regret that, you freak," snarled the thug in front of Bishop. It seemed to be a rather elaborate war-cry as it signalled all three thugs to close in. The one on the left was sent staggering away, glassy-eyed and bloodied by the elbow jabbed right into the bridge of his nose but the distraction allowed the front-most thug to land a much better blow than Bishop had expected. Not that the massive mutant allowed his surprise to show, instead planting a boot right in the thug's groin. The man collapsed with a high-pitched squeal of pain, but Bishop ignored him and without breaking his motion swivelled and grabbed with contemptuous ease the fist that had been intended for his left temple. He spent a few seconds watching the man flopping like a gaffed fish in a pathetic attempt to free his arm before starting to squeeze the wrist with inexorable force.

"I suggest you start talking before I start to lose my temper," Bishop advised the suddenly very pale-faced would-be assailant, who managed a defiant sneer before the sensation of bones in his hand starting to give way ruined the last of his resistance.

"I s-suggest you l-leave before I get the police inv-volved," the barman managed to stammer, awestruck by the sudden violence that had flared up and been brutally suppressed in barely five minutes. Bishop was not intimidate by the prospect of this time-zone's police; in his own, law enforcement generally came in the form of ten feet of heavily armoured cyborg, but any such encounter would use up precious time he could not afford to spare.

"I'll be on my way as soon as this pond-scum gives me some answers."

The pond-scum was only too keen to oblige.


End file.
